


If you are the Ghost of Christmas (won't you stay the night)

by noelia_g



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:47:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve and Grantaire is trapped in an elevator with Enjolras, of all people, because gods and the universe and karma are all in league against Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you are the Ghost of Christmas (won't you stay the night)

Grantaire expects a number of things when he leaves his flat on the Christmas' Eve for a quick dash to the store on the corner.

He expects it to be cold as balls, for one, especially since he forgot his jacket and couldn't be bothered to go back for it. 

He expects Mrs Lasocki from the shop to look all sad and concerned as he picks up booze on Christmas' Eve and he expects her to try and invite him over for supper again. (He made a mistake of accepting once, but while her pierogi are worth dying for, they're not worth the attempts at setting him up with one of her three daughters.)

He expects the stray cat that hangs on the ground floor to stalk him back to his place and sneak in while Grantaire pretends to try and stop him and then feeds him all the tuna anyway.

He doesn't expect to run into Enjolras, wearing a fancy fucking suit, the moment he steps into the elevator.

"Fuck," he mutters and belatedly considers he could have sold it as a realization he forgot his jacket. Could have apologized and stepped back and waved away Enjolras' inevitable polite offer of holding the doors. 

Instead, he steps into the elevator like an idiot and allows the doors to close behind him with a swoosh.

"I was at Eponine's" Enjolras tells him, like there could have been any other reason for him to visit the building. Honestly. Not like he'd be here visiting Grantaire, and the chances that he made a call at the friendly drug dealer's on the fourth or the old guy obsessed with pigeons' on the third were rather slim. "Dropping off presents," he adds. 

"Won't make the breakfast?" Thank fuck. Eponine has firmly requested Grantaire's presence for that one, and Enjolras early on a Christmas morning while Grantaire nursed his inevitable Christmas Eve hangover would be a bit too much. A whole fuckload too much. 

"Prior engagements," Enjolras says curtly and Grantaire shrugs at him. Not like he's owed explanations. "Do you..."

And that's the exact moment the elevator makes an infernal noise and comes to a sudden stop with a rather worrying jerk, because gods and the universe and karma are all in a conspiracy against Grantaire. 

Fuck, but he must have been awful in all his previous lives. 

The lights flickered off and the blueish emergency light is on, for once actually working, wonders never cease. 

"I'm sure it'll work again in no time," Enjolras says soothingly. Grantaire snorts at him and shakes his head.

From optimists and idealists and goddamn fucking activists, deliver him. 

"Yeah, last time Gavroche was the one stuck here he sure was out in a fucking jiffy."

"See?"

Grantaire ignores him. "Because the little monkey crawled out of here through there," he points at the small hatch in the ceiling. "I don't think either of us would fit."

"Just call the super?" Enjolras sighs at him.

"Sure. Hadn't seen the man in two years, I think he's been dead the whole time, buried in someone's walls. Besides, the elevator doesn't have such newfangled amenities as a phone and I left my cell back at the flat."

"Fine," Enjolras mutters, the vein on his forehead a little more visible. Grantaire truly missed it, it's been a whole day since he last pissed Enjolras off enough for this.

One of these days he'll learn how to shut the fuck up, but that probably won't be today. Maybe he could make it his New Year's resolution.

He won't keep it anyway, he hadn't kept any of his resolutions since he was ten, but keeping them is not the point of resolution. The point is to realize your own propensity for failure, he's discovered.

Enjolras pats his pockets and frowns. "Fuck."

"You were saying?" 

"I must have left my phone in the car."

Grantaire laughs humorlessly and slides down to the floor, sitting with his back to one of the walls and stretching his legs. "Well, then, buckle up, this is going to be a lengthy ride. Well, not quite a ride, if you know what I mean..."

“We could call out for help,” Enjolras suggests, and he means ‘you could’, Grantaire has his number and don’t think he doesn’t. He’s seen the man do plenty undignified things over the years, seen him covered in blood and egg yolk, been witness (and accessory, don’t ask) to breaking and entering and accompanied him into a jail cell to later watch Enjolras talk them out of any charges pressed (Combeferre’s arrival with Bahorel and Marius helped, because no one stood any chance against that law-fu combined). 

What he has never seen, however, was Enjolras learning to ask for help, less alone yell out for it. 

Well, maybe once, but he didn’t think a broken elevator merited _that_.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, that’s probably just the electricity going out, happens often enough,” he mutters. “Shouldn’t take more than half an hour, well an hour tops, I think that’s their standing record. Unless it’s the elevator itself, then we might be stuck until someone notices it broke down… worst case scenario is four am, when Mr Owens insists on walking his dog. He won’t stand for having to use stairs to carry the pup back up.”

Enjolras glances at his watch and grimaces. “Eight hours, then?”

“Worst case scenario,” Grantaire shrugs. “Call out if you want, but don’t get your hopes up; most of these people wouldn’t react if they heard shots fired.”

“You speak from experience.”

“Sixth floor, last month. Admittedly, he was only cleaning his weapon and shot the coffee table.”

It gets him a long suffering sigh as Enjolras leans against the wall. “Why do you live here, again?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he offers.

“No, but you can,” Enjolras shoots back easily. “I’ve seen the prices on the gallery pieces and I happen to know they don’t stay at the gallery for long.”

“I’m spending all on booze,” he says flatly. “And hookers and blow,” he adds for a good measure.

It earns him a long steely look, Enjolras’ blue eyes narrowed and coldly assessing. It’s even worse in the glow of the emergency light; he looks unearthly, like a deity presiding over Grantaire’s judgement. 

Grantaire groans. “Are we really going to discuss my finances and life choices? Fuck, alright,” he mutters and stands up again, crowding towards the closed doors. “Help, help,” he calls out, only half theatrically. “Stuck in an elevator here, booze for our saviours!”

He listens for a long moment as, predictably, no one answers and nothing happens, no rushing heroes to the rescue. Oh, well.

“Oh, well,” he tells Enjolras. “I tried.”

“Yes, A for effort,” he gets in return. There’s a rare lightness in Enjolras’ voice as he slides to the floor, mirroring Grantaire’s earlier position, his back to the wall and legs sprawled carelessly. The blue light gives him an eerie halo, light and shadow perfect on his face, and with his dark suit and white shirt open at the collar he looks like a wet dream Grantaire might have had.

Or like a wet dream that’s going to be a damn recurrent one from now on.

“You seem curiously unbothered by the whole thing,” he says suspiciously and Enjolras shrugs, looking up at him with a ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

“It’s the best excuse I’ve had in years,” he says simply.

Grantaire turns the sentence over in his head and follows it to its logical conclusion. He sits down opposite Enjolras, his own sprawl much less graceful, and tilts his head at the other man. “You do look like you have places to be,” he allows. “One of your family’s fancy soirees?”

“I believe a ‘small gathering of family and closest friends’ was used as a description,” Enjolras says, his tone indicating that it means around two hundreds people and that a city landmark had been rented for the occasion at a great cost. 

“Poor man,” Grantaire offers. “No wonder you see being stuck in an elevator as preferable, even with me for company.”

“I detect a note of mockery in your voice, but I’m going to let it go,” Enjolras informs him magnanimously.

“You’ve always been a generous man.”

“What do you mean even with you?”

Grantaire groans and lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud. “We’re not doing this, Enjolras.”

“Would you prefer to play a round of I Spy instead?”

“How about a round of the quiet game?”

Enjolras is silent for long enough for Grantaire to get suspicious and look at him again. He doesn’t really believe Enjolras took him up on the suggestion and the silence is worrying. 

Indeed, he finds himself fixed with the steely blue gaze, carefully studied with attention Enjolras usually grants to law books and philosophy texts. Grantaire hates to disappoint him, but he doesn’t hold worthy answers like those do. 

“Do I have something on my face?”

“A rather curious expression,” Enjolras says, unhelpfully, so there's that. "What did you mean even with you?"

"Let it go," Grantaire asks. He's one step away from pleading and to be honest, he might go there if he has to. 

Enjolras, predictably, doesn't let it go. Like a dog with a bone, that one. "If I'm not mistaken, you're the one who's been avoiding me." 

He’s not exactly wrong, even though Grantaire is surprised he has noticed. The shock current running down his spine is laced with guilt and satisfaction in equal measures. 

Not that he was exactly subtle about it, but he tried not to be overt either, for fear of drawing Eponine’s, Cosette’s or, worst, Jehan’s attention. It wasn’t even such a big deal, it was just about the biggest oh fuck moment of his life.

He should have seen this coming, is all he’s saying. He’s let himself be dragged to protests and activists meetings. He willingly risked jail for Enjolras’ causes and he spent whole weekends baking fucking cupcakes with Cosette for the fundraisers. And yet it wasn’t until two, no, three months ago, Combeferre’s birthday party, when he looked at Enjolras and suddenly _knew_.

Courfeyrac had proclaimed to be in love again, but while it usually made him cheerful and effusive, this time it caused him to be despondent and melancholy. He refused to give up a name and clamped down after drinking half of the tequila bottle. No amount of gentle coaxing and outright dares would get him to say anything else.

Enjolras was, of course, just about the only one who hadn’t tried, but he didn’t say anything else either and that one didn’t go unnoticed. Marius, in a rather brave and teasing mood, called him out on not giving his usual spiel on romantic entanglements as a distraction and got no more than a shrug in return.

“If you can’t beat them…” Enjolras said enigmatically and downed the rest of whatever he was drinking. Grantaire caught his eye at that very moment and it somehow felt like being hit by a truck very gently, all his nerve endings on fire for the grand two seconds before Enjolras looked away, back to his discussion with Eponine.

It should have been more of a moment, is all Grantaire’s saying, but here they are.

In a broken elevator, on Christmas Eve, with Enjolras looking at him with open question in his eyes and expression that seems actually hurt.

“I wasn’t…” he starts and abandons the sentence when Enjolras grimaces and looks down.

“On second thought, let’s give the quiet game a try,” he tells Grantaire flatly.

Grantaire obliges him for a while, lost for words for once. He’s never lied to Enjolras and isn’t about to start now, but he doesn’t know what to say otherwise. 

Unfortunately, Enjolras is much better at the quiet game (yeah, it comes as something of a surprise to Grantaire too) and the silence starts itching against Grantaire’s skin, heavy and overwhelming.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t set out to make you uncomfortable,” he says. Enjolras doesn’t meet his gaze, but huffs out quietly, his head tilting up minutely, listening. Grantaire chooses his next words carefully. “It’s never easy. With unrequited…” don’t say love, _don’t say love_ “attraction.”

He wasn't harbouring any hopes, but the dark flicker of an expression passing over Enjolras' face is still like a punch to the gut. 

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"You have nothing to apologise for," Enjolras tells him, finally looking up. He sounds nothing if not earnest, his gaze clear. "We don't choose how we feel, I've been quite reliably informed." Grantaire raises his eyebrow at him, but Enjolras doesn't move on to elaborate. Instead, after a long moment of silence, he sighs. "I hope we can remain friends," he offers.

Grantaire feels laughter bubbling up inside of him, a manic and inappropriate tickling at the back of his throat, his nose itching. It's such a bullshit expression, he wants to say, such a cliche. 

He thinks about saying he wasn't aware they were friends, but that'd be uncharitable. He got arrested for the man and Enjolras had carried him to his car and never mentioned the blood stains on the upholstery; obviously they were friends. It made the whole thing worse but it was still true.

"Sure," he says. "So, what did you buy for Eponine?"

"What?"

Grantaire sighs at him. For someone so sharp Enjolras can be regrettably slow on the uptake. It'll take him a moment but he'll understand the best way to deal with it is avoidance. Push it down and pretend nothing happen, drown it in alcohol if that's your wont and it sure is Grantaire's. 

"I've known Ep for fifteen years and I still have no idea what to get her for birthdays and Christmases and shit. It's fucking frustrating. What did you get her?"

"An antique meat cleaver."

"Fuck," Grantaire mutters, startled. "She'll love it," he adds. Whatever he expected, it wasn't that, fuck. Ep will get a kick out of it, that's for sure. She had a rule against practical presents and a chip on her shoulder about anything she couldn't or wouldn't get for herself, it made buying her gifts a serious fucking ordeal. Most gag gifts were out as well, she was never impressed by them. A meat cleaver was enough of an out of a left field thing to satisfy her, she had the weirdest sense of humor. "What did you get me?" he asks next, before he can think better of it, because he's always had the survival instincts of a snail on a highway. 

"You'll find out tomorrow," Enjolras tells him. There's tension in his shoulders still, in the lines of his body, he's holding himself carefully. Grantaire truly hadn't meant to make him this uncomfortable and it bothers him that he apparently has. But, slowly, Enjolras relaxes minutely, shifting on the floor a little to the left. 

"What if I can guess? Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

There it is, a ghost of a smile back in the corner of Enjolras' mouth. "Game over, it _is_ a breadbox."

"You are a fucking terrible liar, Enjolras," Grantaire tells him mournfully. 

"If you say so," Enjolras shrugs. 

Grantaire had preferred the arguments, he thinks, not these stilted efforts to keep things light and easy as Enjolras doesn't quite meet his eyes. 

He leans back and closes his eyes. He needs a smoke. He needs a drink. He needs to get out of this elevator. He needs, above all else, to go back to the good times before he knew he had went and fallen head over fucking heels for Enjolras, to the times when he could watch Enjolras and not feel his chest go hollow and his eyes hurt a little, like he was staring at a bright flame.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable either," Enjolras offers and Grantaire blinks at him.

"You live to make people uncomfortable, that's your whole shtick, remember?"

It's part of the mission statement, even. You can't strive for change without making a whole bunch of people uncomfortable and as far as Enjolras was concerned, the more uncomfortable the better, meant they were on the right track. 

"Not you," Enjolras says simply, holding Grantaire's surprised gaze for a long moment before he takes his turn in settling back against the wall, eyelids fluttering shut. 

"I got her the Fifty Shades of Gray trilogy," he offers.

"For Eponine?" Enjolras asks without opening his eyes.

"Yep."

He snorts. "She's going to murder you."

"Yep. Probably with the meat cleaver, so thanks for that."

"Always glad to be of service," Enjolras says and sits up, eyes wide open now, like he's made a decision. Grantaire shivers under his gaze and covers it by stretching his legs and muttering his foot has gone to sleep on him. "Is my... Is it really so hard to bear that you have to go to such lengths in avoiding me?"

"Not everything is about you, Enjolras," he says tiredly.

"I think it’s safe to assume that you actively avoiding me is about me."

Grantaire sighs. "It's about me, alright? I need time, that's it."

"I've made a point of not acting differently, not saying anything. Can't you just forget you know how I feel about you and just..."

"It's not that fucking easy," Grantaire says, too loud and too angry, enough for Enjolras to falter, wounded. "Sorry, I didn't mean... You've done nothing wrong, you're beyond reproach. Believe me, I appreciate what you're trying to do, that's more than I could have hoped for. You're just not that easy to get over," he says and calls up a smile. It's not even really a fake one, even if it is rather tired. "Don't let it go to your head."

"What?"

"I mean, you have a surprisingly reasonable ego for someone with your, you know, all that," he waves vaguely, "well, apart from the whole part where you believe you can change the world, of course. Still..." he falters, finally taking in Enjolras' stricken expression. "What?" he echoes.

"Get over. You said I'm not easy to get over."

"I told you I'm working on it," Grantaire says defensively. 

Who the fuck gave Enjolras the right to stare at him like this? Where does he fucking get off, looking like that, startled and flushed and wide awake, like he's just been shocked with enough electricity to put his hair on ends. 

"I don't think we've been having the same conversation," Enjolras says finally and if Grantaire didn't know better, he'd say his voice is shaking. 

"What conversation are you having?" 

"The one about you avoiding me after you've realized I was in love with you," Enjolras says and okay, this is most definitely not the conversation Grantaire was thought they were having and also, what the actual fucking fuck. "I think we might have gotten some wires crossed..."

"You think..." Grantaire scrambles up to his knees, moving closer to Enjolras and looking down at him. He feels warm, anxious, crazy, _wild_ and like he's in a free fall with no sight of the ground. Mostly, he feels angry. "In what world, in what fucking universe would I not want you? Have you seen yourself, Enjolras?"

"You've mentioned you appreciate my appearance, but..."

"You mean all the times I waxed poetics about your hair and bone structures and compared you to deities and angels? Fuck that," he mutters. His fingers itch and ache and he reaches out unconsciously, watching his hand rest on the side of Enjolras' face, watching Enjolras actually lean into the touch. His breath catches and he finds himself barely able to speak. He barrels on regardless. "You are very pretty," he assures Enjolras, his tone coming out more snarky than he intends and certainly more sarcastic than he'd think himself capable of at the moment.

"So you've said, but..."

"I'd love you regardless. I didn't join your merry bands of misfits for your looks and I didn't let myself be arrested for them and I certainly didn't listen to your spiels on biometric passports because of them."

"You love me," Enjolras says, like he's stuck on that one.

"That's what you get from this?" Grantaire grumbles, because it's better than saying: I thought you knew. I thought you knew and wanted to let me down easy. I thought you knew and tried to be nice about it and for fuck's sake, never be nice, never try to be nice.

"Would you prefer to discuss biometric passports instead?" Enjolras asks, and praised be the gods, he looks furious. He looks like fire and lightning and storm and it's glorious to behold. 

This is what he wants to say: first I realized that you're destined for greatness, that you're going to take the country and the world by storm, that we are going to be better for it and you are going to be so much worse for it. I knew all this and I didn't yet understand. I only knew I loved you much later, when the love and the devotion has been piling up for years and the slightest smile from you made it spill over. 

He says nothing of this, but instead leans in and kisses Enjolras, stealing it for himself. 

His heart flutters in panic and his pulse rushes, deafening to his own ears, everything in him preparing for the abrupt end, but instead he finds himself pulled closer and thoroughly ruined, claimed and possessed. 

Enjolras kisses like he's imagined it a thousand times over, like he's furious it took so long like he's making sure Grantaire's skin is branded with his touch. Grantaire finds himself sprawled on the floor with Enjolras half draped over him. His lips are tingling and Enjolras' suit is covered in dust, his hair an absolute glorious mess. 

Grantaire places a hand on his chest and pushes him away. "You're in love with me?" he asks belatedly, because only now did Enjolras' words truly land. 

"You're such a fucking idiot, I've loved you for years."

"Why?" Grantaire asks without thinking. It's _Enjolras_ , for god's sake, in his wildest dreams Grantaire hadn't thought... He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, it's quite a terrible thing to ask."

"Would you like the answer anyway?" Enjolras asks earnestly, kindly. And fuck, he will have one, Grantaire can tell. He's thought about it, turned it in his head over and over, made lists in his mind and maybe even on paper, he's catalogued everything Grantaire and his own feelings for him and he loves him still, wants him despite and because of all that he is.

When Grantaire kisses him this time it's him trying to put everything he feels into that kiss. It's impossible, but he can try at least. Enjolras groans, his fingers tangled in Grantaire's hair, tugging and pulling. They end up sprawled on the floor again, kissing for hours or days or years, maybe for whole minutes. 

Enjolras pulls away with a dazed expression and swollen lips, looking wild. 

"So there's that," Grantaire mutters and Enjolras' gaze focuses, first on him, eyes filled with wonder, and then suddenly, startled, on something behind and above Grantaire.

"What?" he asks and turns his head, to see a blonde head sticking out of the ceiling, an amused expression on Gavroche's face.

"Gross," the boy offers charitably and drops something into Enjolras' lap. "Think fast."

It's a cellphone. "That was in my car," Enjolras offers flatly.

"Yeah, so. An acquaintance of mine," Gavroche starts, drawing out his words pointedly. He pauses and waits for Enjolras to nod his acknowledgement that the identity of Gavroche's confidential informant won't be inquired about. Only then does Gavroche continue, "happened across it."

"In my locked car," Enjolras points put.

"I told you not to park in this area, dumbass," Gavroche shoots back easily. "Anyway, 'e didn't know you was a friend, only realized because of the photos on your phone here. Let me know, and here we are."

"How much damage to the car?"

"Please, we are all professionals here."

Enjolras watches him for a moment, ignoring the incredulous look Grantaire gives him and the proceeding to ignore Grantaire when he laughs and tries to hide it by pushing his face into Enjolras' neck.

Well, maybe not quite ignore; with his fingers tightening in the hair at the nape of Grantaire's neck as he presses him closer into the touch. 

"Give your friend my regards and thank them for returning the phone," Enjolras says finally, his tone regal. "Now, any plans of getting us out of here?"

"Yeah, on it," Gavroche salutes and disappears back up, his movements silent as he starts climbing back up. It doesn't take long until they are voices outside the elevator, Gavroche and Eponine and, if Grantaire is right, Bahorel. 

"Come here," he tells Enjolras and moves to stand up, offering his hand to pull Enjolras up to his feet. They're standing close enough to steal another kiss, but Grantaire settles on patting down Enjolras' hair and straightening his collar. "We don't have to..." he starts and silences himself abruptly when Enjolras sneaks his hand into his.

"I want to."

Grantaire ducks his head and feels Enjolras step just that little bit closer, placing a soft kiss at his temple, like he can’t help himself.

The doors opens slowly and with effort, revealing Bahorel holding a crowbar and humming Jingle Bells under his breath.

He blinks at them and then offers a wide, shit-eating grin as they climb up and out of the elevator. “And to all a Happy New Year,” he announces.

“Yes, thank you,” Enjolras says flatly, and his fond exasperation is fantastic to see from up close. He moves to clap his free hand on Bahorel’s shoulder, offering a smile. “Truly.”

“Anytime.”

“Not that this isn’t all nice,” Eponine says, crossing her arms over her bright orange bathrobe, “but I’m fucking cold here, so I’m going back to the apartment. Gavroche, you should be asleep. Bahorel, if you wanna stay over until breakfast, the couch is yours, if you snore too loudly I’ll smother you.”

“Best offer I’ve had all week,” Bahorel says with a wink. 

“I’d invite you to mine, but…” Grantaire tells him.

“But you have better plans, I get it. Enjolras,’ Bahorel tips off his invisible hat to them and Eponine sends them both a glare that either promises retribution for waking her up for this or demands all the details tomorrow, it’s hard to tell with her sometimes. 

“I hope I do, at least,” Grantaire mutters, feeling immediately that Enjolras’ grip on his hand tightens. 

“Will you invite _me_ to yours, then?”

“Don’t you have a fancy party to get to?”

“Can’t imagine why I would want to,” he says and follows Grantaire up the stairs. “I’ll have to go to the family breakfast and dinner tomorrow, but I was going to anyway. It’s just going to take a little more apologising to my mother. Or less than it would have,” he admits after thinking it over. “I tend to say things at the parties.”

“That I’m sure of,” Grantaire mutters as they come to a stop on front of his doors and he has to let go of Enjolras’ hand to open it - it sticks and you need to work the lock in just the right way. 

“Do you want to come with?” Enjolras asks next, surprising him. He meets Grantaire’s gaze and shrugs almost sheepishly.

“Probably too early to do the whole meet the parents thing, don’t you think?”

And Jesus fuck, he’d need months to prepare himself for that one. 

“Way too early,” Enjolras agrees. “I just would very much prefer to spend the day with you.”

“We have a few hours before morning,” Grantaire points out, marvelling at the gentleness in Enjolras’ tone.. “Please come in,” he adds, trying for mock politeness and missing it by miles, his voice dropping low.

Once inside, Enjolras doesn’t look around the place like Grantaire has expected him too. He’s been here before, on occasion, but not recently. Grantaire expected his curiosity to win over and was prepared to divert him with coffee, maybe, and possibly guiding him to the couch because he has vague plans that leads to kissing Enjolras again, and might as well be most comfortable.

“Bedroom?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire’s prepared offers of coffee or tea or the juice he thinks he might actually have in the fridge die out on his tongue.

“You want to--”

Enjolras reaches out and takes Grantaire’s hand again. “Yes. But no. Slow’s good and you look tired. Happy,” he says with satisfaction and lets Grantaire kiss him to taste his smile, “but tired.”

Grantaire looks at him for a moment, taking his fill. He rarely sees Enjolras like this, he thinks, this _bright_ , not lit up with anger but illuminated with joy. He put that look there, he thinks. It’s hard to believe, but that’s what somehow happened. 

“Slow’s perfect,” he agrees and lets Enjolras go for a few moments, enough for Enjolras to take off his jacket and drape it over the back of the couch and follow him to the bedroom, where Grantaire does his best to tidy the whole place up in three seconds. There are clothes on his desk chair and books all over the bed and a stained coffee mug on the night stand. “Just give me a moment,” he mutters and Enjolras’ hands cover his on the books, picking them up and placing them gingerly on the desk. 

“Bed, Grantaire,” he says firmly and makes a hurry-up gesture at him when Grantaire doesn’t comply immediately.

“You’re going to be like this all the time, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

Irresistible. “Bossy,” he says. 

“Probably,” Enjolras admits, unconcerned. 

Grantaire nods and starts shedding his hoodie. “Alright, then.”

Enjolras is much more efficient with undressing himself, down to his boxers before Grantaire even gets to his jeans. It works well for him, very well even, because Enjolras steps in to help, his fingers swift and impatient.

“Come here,” he whispers and they’re kissing again, stumbling into bed carelessly. It’s not exactly slow as promised, but not hurried either, there’s no rush or pressure or goal beyond just this, their lips and hands, barely a whisper of air allowed between them.

It does turn slow, eventually. The heat isn’t gone, just turned into pleasant warmth, the kisses softer and gentler and somehow even more intimate. Enjolras traces a line of wet kisses down his jaw and mutters something inaudible into his neck, lips moving against Grantaire’s skin. Grantaire is half asleep already, his mind fuzzy and light, and Enjolras’ arm tightens around him.

He surfaces a while later, his slumber interrupted by someone yelling in the streets, and huffs at the soft hair that tickle against his lips. “Hey,” he says softly, not wanting to wake Enjolras up if he’s actually sleeping. 

“Hey,” Enjolras mutters back, voice rough. 

“Happy Christmas,” he offers. The blue digits of his alarm clock inform him it’s almost two am. “You know, my grandmother always said that the way you spend Christmas Eve is how you’re going to live the following year.”

“You mean stuck with you?” Enjolras asks, raising his head to rest his chin on Grantaire’s chest. There’s enough light from the open window, the streets lamps outside, and the glow of the alarm clock, for Grantaire to make out his features, set into a half smile, eyes dark and unusually warm. “Good. I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this was my "Christmas fic while not an actual Christmas fic" :D
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr (realitycheckbounced): it's mostly bad puns and crying over the Les Mis characters and cast, such fun.


End file.
